


Wanted: Suspect, Motive, Random Wolves  Part II: Shifting Beneath Their Feet

by melly_diamond, readbythilia (thilia)



Series: Wanted: Suspect, Motive, Random Wolves [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Case Fic, Download Available, F/M, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Podfic, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Length: 1-1.5 Hours, Police Officer Derek Hale, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:00:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29251104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melly_diamond/pseuds/melly_diamond, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thilia/pseuds/readbythilia
Summary: melly_diamond:Well. Remember when I said "Part II is almost done, will be up in a couple of weeks," in August?I lied. I meant well, though. I usually do. And there is a Part III coming.I know. I know. I promise it will be sooner than later, cause Stiles has a way of taking up space in my brain, and then Peter chimed in with a non-sequitur, and then Derek went to get a beer and it got rowdy. As Dot from Animaniacs once said, "Boys, go fig."THANK YOU to all the people who have read, commented, left kudos, etc. You're all wonderful and I hope you enjoy this part too. No old ladies with a fondness for hooch and a bird problem were harmed in the writing of this part. Honestly. RIP Jenny.thilia:Music used in this part:- 25 by The Pretty RecklessThanks for reading/listening!
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski & Original Female Character(s)
Series: Wanted: Suspect, Motive, Random Wolves [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1850908
Comments: 8
Kudos: 40





	Wanted: Suspect, Motive, Random Wolves  Part II: Shifting Beneath Their Feet

  
  


  
[MP3 with music](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/ncyxjnblev5xb8y/%5Bpodfic%5D%20Wanted%202%20-%20Shifting%20Beneath%20Their%20Feet.mp3) [01:27:52 | 81 MB]

**Wanted: Suspect, Motive, Random Wolves, Part II.**

Stiles had spent seven days in Walter Reed hospital.

After two, he was antsy.

After three, he demanded his laptop and was pissy when denied.

After four, he tried to bribe a nurse, a doctor, and incidentally, Derek, to break him out. All refused him - the nurses and doctors kindly, and Derek, not so much. In fact, his words were along the lines of "For fuck's sake, stop being such a giant goddamned baby." That had made John laugh and have to leave the room after Stiles tried to glare him into a small grease spot.

And the entire time he was conscious, he really, really wanted a cigarette or ten.

Marcy had been by his side the entire time, as had Derek; the two of them had become cautious friends bonding over old stories of Stiles as a teen – all of which Stiles hotly disputed the veracity of – and by their shared concern over this stubborn man who dismissed the giant slash across his chest, and the ones on his back as "mere flesh wounds," that could have been taken care of with Neosporin and some gauze, instead of deep, immediately infected cuts that required flushing, antibiotics and minor surgery to close.

While Marcy and John could be told the truth – that an insane, vengeful werewolf in beta form had fought back against an enraged Stiles and managed to get in a couple of good swipes, the medical staff had been a different story, and they had been told that in investigating in the woods, Stiles had been attacked by an animal and rendered unconscious. That much was true. It was also true that Derek had found him and brought him to an open area and called for help.

What wasn't said was that the reason the heartbeat Derek had heard had disappeared was because Stiles had gotten off two shots of pure silver bullet, had hit Miller in the stomach and thigh, and that Miller had staggered, then righted himself and run deeper into the mine until his heartbeat had been muffled, then gone. It also wasn't noted that Derek had found Stiles losing blood at an alarming rate, had pulled off his shirt, and Stiles' too, and managed to stanch the blood and create a tourniquet. Then he'd picked up Stiles and run, pushing through piled debris by sheer force of will. He'd gotten him into the Pathfinder and raced back to the main road, meeting the EMTs at the intersection of Library and Beech Streets and turning Stiles over to them. He had been transported to Bluefield Regional Hospital to be stabilized, and then flown to Walter Reed, since he was a government agent.

Derek had called John, then called Marcy, who notified Stiles' superiors, who were waiting at Walter Reed; John had arrived after Stiles was in surgery, and had hugged Derek tightly; Derek had hugged back, burying his face in John's shoulder. Marcy had hugged John, then Derek, who was surprised, but returned the hug, the three of them sitting in a small, private waiting room. Derek had told them what happened in minimal terms – at least, until John demanded the full story.

Derek had told him, and John had muttered, "Fucking werewolves," then looked up, caught, and started to speak to Derek, who simply got up and left the room. He was sure John didn't mean him, but he didn't want the apology right now. He didn't want anything except to slash Miller's throat and make him bleed out slowly as Derek watched him die. He figured Stiles might want that too.

This version of Stiles, the impatient, antsy "get me the fuck out of here" version, was more familiar to Derek, and he had patience where John – who was no longer used to this – and Marcy, who had never known this Stiles – didn't. Maybe because this reminded him of their – well Stiles' youth, or maybe just because he felt the same level of anger and couldn't express it fully either.

He was tempted to go outside and have a smoke of his own, but it had been years since he'd briefly picked up, then discarded that habit, and the last thing he needed was Stiles' inevitable "Ha, ha, HA," so he didn't, just left the hospital and paced.

He had two missed calls from Sheriff Parsons, and groaned, but listened to the message, skin paling. Another murder yesterday, same MO, plus of course they'd found Jenny, and had performed an autopsy. The Sheriff said the memorial service was going to be on Sunday, if he and the Agent would like to attend, and that he had once again shot the crime scene photos and hoped he'd done a good job. 

Derek had thanked him for letting them know, promised to relay the information to Stiles, and then sat outside on a bench, thinking about their brief time with Jenny Prentiss and how she'd died for talking to them – he didn't look up when people walked by, because he knew his eyes were glowing, his fists clenched to keep the claws from popping out.

He wondered who knew enough to blame them for her death. Probably most of the town, by now. They might be walking into a lynching. Once Stiles had been admitted and out of surgery, Derek had called and let the Sheriff know that Agent Stilinski would be alright and that they had a good idea of who the killer might be, but had declined to say more than that until they could all speak in person. He tried to suss out what the general feeling about the event had been in town, but Parsons was little help; Derek would have been shocked if he had been. He also knew that any "help" was going to be in short supply upon their return to Bartley; considering that the last person to assist them had been murdered by a serial killer, people were probably keeping their mouths shut for a reason: self-preservation. 

He sat outside for a good fifteen minutes, and then took a deep breath and re-entered the hospital, meeting John who was immediately apologetic, and Derek listened to him, then shrugged. "I understand," he said, and he did - that didn't mean it didn't sting a little, regardless.

John knew he'd upset Derek, but didn't know what else to do, and most decidedly did not want either of his boys going back to Bartley, but also knew he had no power to stop them, and that if they couldn't get this guy, then probably no one would. He had to respect that.

Marcy invited John and Derek over to hers and Stiles' place for a pickup dinner that second night, once they knew Stiles was going to be okay, and they'd accepted. All three of them were exhausted, worried, drained, and no one was up to going out. They lived not too far away from the medical complex, and once Stiles' guard had arrived – federal agents merited police protection – they left, John and Derek following Marcy's Honda back to their neighborhood.

Derek was mildly surprised that their apartment was not controlled chaos – he suspected Stiles' office at Quantico was another story – but was a decent size, on a quiet street, tastefully decorated, but not overcrowded. Nice living room furniture, a large TV and Roku setup, pictures on the wall – family, friends, colleagues. Stiles' citations lined a small hallway, and Derek noted that Marcy had more than a few awards herself.

She set down her backpack. "Welcome to the house that Ikea and Wayfair built," she said. "It's not fancy, but we call it home."

John looked around. "My son lives here? MY son?"

"I know, right?" she laughed. "His office is a swirling pit of chaos, but here, it's pretty controlled. We agreed to not bring work home if we could help it, so this is kind of our refuge. The loveseat pulls out into a pretty comfortable double bed, and there's the guest room, so you decide who sleeps where."

"You take the bedroom," said Derek. "I'm fine out here."

"Are you sure?" John still felt bad, and Derek could smell it on him. They'd be okay, but they were both too tired right now to discuss anything more than what to eat. But Derek nodded, and gave him a little smile while Marcy checked messages on her work phone, then smiled at them. "I have a lasagna in the freezer, and garlic knots," she offered. "And we have salad stuff."

"That sounds perfect, thank you," said John gratefully, and went off to take a shower at her urging, leaving Derek feeling awkward. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Well, you could cut up veggies for the salad," Marcy offered. "With your claws."

He blinked at her, startled, and she laughed a little. "I do know all about you, Derek, and have for a long time. I'm kidding, a paring knife is fine. Stiles told me that you used to pop your claws at him in a show of intimidation from time to time."

"That wasn't me, that was Peter," grumbled Derek. "He was always doing shit like that to show off."

"Ah, Peter – he's charming as hell, isn't he? And a shameless flirt."

"Don't forget huge asshole," Derek added, and yes, popped the cap with his claws, leaving Marcy to watch him in fascination. "Huge asshole should be the first item on any list describing my uncle."

She smiled, then licked her lips. "I've never met or seen an actual werewolf before," she offered. "When Stiles told me about them, I just thought he had had too much bourbon, and well, he had, but he was dead serious. I just thought … I mean, it's the kind of thing from late night movies or Shudder, not a real thing."

"Well, we're a real thing all right," replied Derek, who wasn't quite sure what to make of this girl. All past feelings for the guy in the hospital bed aside, he got the feeling Marcy regarded him as a curiosity, but at the same time, a threat, which was ridiculous. Whatever he and Stiles had ever been, it was a long time ago, they'd both grown up and gone their separate ways – he meant nothing to the other man anymore, and he was okay with that.

He was. He told himself that and Derek didn't lie, so it had to be true.

Marcy was still watching him, and he set down the bottle carefully. "Would you like me to show you? The eyes, the claws, the fangs, all the good stuff that personifies us? I mean, I know you've already seen Peter's characteristics, but …"

John had re-entered the room and was leaning against the cabinets, watching them, missing nothing.

"Would you mind?" she asked. "I just …"

"I get it, it's fine." Derek took a breath, closed his eyes, opened them again, glowing bright, searing blue, his fingers elongating, the claws popping out of the tips. His ears flared, became pointed, his fangs breaking through his gums; he bared them, cause otherwise, they crowded his jaw in a way that was uncomfortable without the flow of adrenaline accompanying it. He barely stopped himself from growling – it seemed unnecessary. But he kind of wanted to. He stopped himself from going full shift, ‘cause a large black wolf in an apartment-sized kitchen was a little much, even for a seasoned wolf-watcher.

Marcy was staring, fascinated. "Holy shit," she breathed, sounding uncannily like Stiles, but unlike him, she immediately started studying him with a scientific eye. "And this happens instinctively in reaction to fear or anger stimuli?"

"In those who have limited or no control, yes," said Derek. "Often, bitten wolves have that exact reaction to all sorts of emotion, which is why it's essential for them to learn how to handle themselves and their new abilities quickly, lest they hurt someone – or themselves. Born wolves are taught control early on, as soon as the first shift occurs. My family taught me from the start, taught my sister, my other brother, the youngest. Stiles' friend Scott, however, was bitten and had to be taught to control his emotions. By Stiles, which is no small thing. I still can't believe he pulled it off."

"That's not surprising. Stiles said you never believed he did anything right."

Just like that, the atmosphere changed, charged, and Derek was no longer in friendly territory, and wow, that had been quick.

"That's not true," he snapped, then swallowed, and John stepped in as Derek turned to shift back, away from Marcy's intent gaze. 

"Stiles and Derek didn't see eye-to-eye for a good amount of time, it's true," said John. "They thought they were much more different than alike, and that turned out to be false, but Derek never didn't believe in Stiles. He just had an alternate way of showing it."

"Like slamming his face into the steering wheel? Punching his hand? Threatening to rip his throat out with his teeth? Sounds like a very healthy relationship to me. Abusive, controlling, cruel." Her voice had cooled, the warmth gone, replaced by a mess of emotions Derek couldn't untangle.

"It wasn't. It wasn't. I was wrong and I had issues that I took out on every single person around me, but no one took more heat for it than I gave myself." Derek realized how tense his voice was, how tense his whole body was, and knew that even the most amazing lasagna in the world wasn't going to salvage this evening, and he needed to leave.

He took a breath. "Thank you for your offer of dinner, but I can't stay."

"Derek," started John, but Derek shook his head. "Stiles lives in another time and place now, and it's a place I don't belong. I'll finish the case if he wants me to, but my role is only as a fellow law enforcement officer. Nothing else."

He moved to retrieve his backpack and nodded. "Thanks for the beer," he managed, and was out the door- he resisted jumping out the window or some other stunt that would reinforce the stereotype and the negative opinion of him that Marcy seemed to be harboring.

On the road, he started walking, only because he was in a residential neighborhood and running would probably get the local cops called on him. But he walked hard, and fast, his fury and memories flooding him.

Back in the house, John set down his beer and looked at his potential – maybe – future daughter in law. "I would think you'd be too smart to be so threatened," he said evenly. "Whatever you think you know about my son and Derek, you're getting one perspective. One. And it's not Derek's, or mine, or Scott's, or Lydia's, or anyone else who was there. You were just unnecessarily cruel to the man who saved my son's life. Who saved your boyfriend's life. Do you truly value my son so little?"

She flinched, the arrow having hit its mark. "Of course, I don't, John! You know me better than that!"

"I thought I did. I was apparently wrong." John set down his beer as well. "Stiles is my son. Derek has also become a son to me, and I'm not okay with what I've heard here tonight. I think maybe turning in early and elsewhere might be a good idea for all of us."

He picked up his jacket. "Sleep well, Marcy. I'll see you tomorrow at the hospital."

John left then, and Marcy, completely stricken and ashamed, sat down on the kitchen floor and cried. Derek scared her in so many ways that she couldn't even begin to enumerate them. He was a creature, not entirely human, and while that fascinated her in theory, seeing it in person was completely different. He was everything Stiles had described, and more. He was responsible for Stiles' not dying.

And when Stiles had woken from his anesthesia dreams, her name had not been first on his lips. Neither had John's, Scott's or Lydia's.

It had been Derek's. And that was scarier than any fangs or claws.

She buried her face in her hands and sobbed from stress, fear, and uncertainty, while 8 miles away, Stiles slept uneasily, feeling shifting dirt under his feet.

*~*

John overtook Derek a few minutes after leaving the house, flashing his lights at him and stopping, reaching to open the door for him and waiting for him to strap in. "I assume Italian food is no longer doing much for you, but how about Chinese? There's a place nearby that the kid says is good." He glanced over. "We could get takeout, go back to that Marriott near Walter Reed, grab a couple of beers?"

Derek was silent a moment, then nodded. "That sounds okay."

John ordered from where they were stopped, and pulled into the parking lot a few minutes later, taking up a spot away from the door. He turned off the engine and leaned back. "She isn't a bad person, Derek; she's been badly scared by this. Stiles has been wounded before, and it's always hard to handle, but this was … this was the first time he's nearly not made it. And this case has strained them both – distance, obsession on Stiles' part. He's not easy to live with in the best of circumstances."

Derek listened to this, letting John speak – he didn't disagree. Stiles was a total experience in human form, and no, he wasn't easy. He was worth the struggle – Derek knew that now, in a way he hadn't back then – but he wasn't easy. "I understand that," he replied when it seemed an answer was expected. "And I don't blame her for being upset, but attacking me was …"

"Cruel, and beneath her. I made sure she knew." John sighed. "And I apologize for my comment – you know the one."

"Fucking werewolves?" Derek had to smile, a tiny bit, in the darkness. "It's okay. It seems a little late to take offense at this point."

"Still. My son is a werewolf, and I should know better."

"Stiles will be stunned to realize he's a beta," said Derek. "And be pissed that he's not the alpha."

John snorted then and squeezed Derek's shoulder before getting out to go get the food.

They got two rooms in an otherwise fully booked hotel by flashing their badges and claiming police business - not a total lie - and soon were eating still-warm Chinese food in John's room, and yes, drinking out of the minibar. They didn't discuss the case, though Derek did get an email from Sheriff Parsons The Younger that made him swallow hard – a link to Jenny Prentiss' obituary, and guilt washed over him. He should have made her come with them. He should have made Stiles take her back to the motel on the FBI's dime and he would have stayed there to feed the damn birds and incidentally, rip out the throat of a murderer. But no, they'd underestimated their enemy, and an innocent person had died.

In a weird way, Derek almost pitied Miller – before, he'd been just another criminal, one more serial killer in a seemingly endless parade of psychopaths, but now? Now it was personal, as the novels liked to say. Now they were pissed. And Derek knew all too well that as angry and fueled as he felt, Stiles felt it more. He'd always rivaled Derek in the protector role- Derek had just never realized that Stiles took care of _everyone_ , not just pack. His mother had told him over and over that pack could be, and would be, anyone you loved and would fight for. Stiles had transformed her words into actions and taught Derek about what constituted the true meaning of pack in the process.

He blinked when John touched his shoulder, and wordlessly handed him his phone, draining his beer as John wiped his hands and read the obituary of one Genevieve (Jenny) Marshall Prentiss, his usually kind face hardening, just like his son's.

He handed the phone back. "Once, Stiles told me that you threatened to rip his throat out with your teeth," he said, and Derek rubbed his face. 

"Yeah, I said a lot of shit like that back then."

John nodded. "When you find this guy? Do it. He deserves nothing less. And make it _hurt._ "

Derek took a breath, let it out slowly. "I will, John. I swear I will."

"I know you will, son. I know you will."

They finished eating in silence and Derek excused himself, going back to his room, and in the shower, he leaned his head against the tiles and tried to forget the terror of seeing that gaping wound on pale skin, as the earth shifted and crumbled beneath them.

He failed.

*~*

Derek ran the next morning; he hated running in the city, hated the thud and lack of give of concrete and asphalt beneath his feet, but he ran because he had to. Because his wolf had not slept since Stiles had been hurt, because he himself couldn't deal with the fear, because it was either run or roar. So he wove amongst people, tried not to bump into anyone, closing his ears to external noise, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

John had left for the hospital early, and Derek was sure Marcy had, too, so he stayed back, taking another shower, repacking his bag, checking email. He checked in with Cora and listened to her tell him about the boy she was dating and his garage band, and how they'd be the next Green Day, or All-Time Low. He pretended he cared about aux cords and pedals and feedback, and just concentrated on her voice. Jesus, every day she sounded more like Laura, and subsequently, like Talia. God, he missed them both.

He texted Peter and told him about Stiles, precipitating a phone call in which Peter demanded to know exactly what "that furry fuck" had done to Stiles, and incidentally, to check if Derek was in one piece. For the two of them, that counted as concern, so when Peter asked "Sanka, you dead mon?" Derek replied with "Yeah, mon," and that was it. "Cool Runnings" quotes were their particular love language, and it worked. Peter offered to fly out and help him not just murder Ellis, but also hide the body, and Derek gave it a moment of serious thought before declining – for now.

"How is Marcy taking it?" asked Peter after a few moments, and Derek bit back a salty answer. 

"She's scared and worried, and busy taking it out on me, so you know, my track record with women remains intact."

"Ah. Does she know about you two? Really know?"

"There is nothing TO know, so no." Derek blinked, but couldn't be bothered with verbal gymnastics right now – that was Stiles' and his uncle's forte, not his.

Peter was silent for exactly .04 of a second before saying, "So no, she doesn't know what you think there is to know, which as far as you know, is nothing."

"Jesus, shut the fuck up, will you? Stiles and I had one kiss. One, a long time ago in a far away place. Be like Elsa and Let. It. Go."

The resounding snort made Derek smile, a little, but Peter was not done. "Assume she knows about the vastly more-than-one kiss, Derek. Assume Stiles loves her enough to be honest and assume that she has good reason to be wary of you. It's your job to make her see you as not a threat. Because you're not, are you?"

Goddammit, Derek hated talking to Peter cause he always felt about four years old around him. "Of course not. So, fine, it was more than one kiss, but again, that was years ago, we've both moved on, and she has nothing to worry about. I mean, hell, you've seen her, talked to her, she likes you so presumably she showed you why she's a great match for Stiles. I mean, you've seen her nice side."

"Every side of that girl is _nice_ ," said Peter with relish. "If I were twenty … hell, even ten years younger, young Stiles would not stand a chance against me. As it is, even now, I bet I could give him a run for his …"

"STOP, okay? Stop sexualizing her, you pervert. Yes, she's pretty, yes, her body is amazing – I assume, I've seen her in mostly FBI sweats – and all that. But if she's as smart as Stiles, or Lydia, she's out of your league. You like ‘em young, vacant and looking for Daddy."

Peter hummed. "What if Stiles called _you_ Daddy?"

"I'm hanging up now and pretending I never heard that," said Derek, who was not okay with the flash of arousal that uncalled-for image had brought up. "You're a dick."

"Keep in touch, Derek," smirked Peter, through the phone, and laughed when he heard the dial tone. Derek was so _easy_ , honestly. At least Stiles could bat the verbal birdie over the net with him a few thousand times before wanting to kill him.

Bat the birdie – he grinned and went back to his well-worn copy of "Lonesome Dove."

Derek checked his watch, saw that it was past ten AM, and figured Marcy would be on her way to work, or at least have meetings or whatever, and it would be safe to go see Stiles. But his calculations were off and he literally ran into her coming out of the nurse's station, catching himself – and her – rather awkwardly.

They stood there for a moment, shades of blue against the stark white hallway, until Marcy reached for Derek's arm. "Do you have a moment to talk? They're taking his vital signs and giving his morning meds so we have a few minutes. Please?"

She looked tired, thought Derek, and like she'd been crying. Was he mean to think "good?" He was. Halestrom = asshole, apparently. "Of course," he said, and let her lead him into the all-too-familiar family waiting room, the door closing behind them.

"John is getting more coffee," she said, and sat down, patting the seat across from her; Derek sat, feeling like he was about to be interrogated – he supposed she had the right.

But no. Instead she pulled back her hands, folding them in her lap. "I want to apologize for last night," she started. "I was out of line, and I'm sorry. The kind of relationship you and Stiles have is something I've never experienced, and I'm not a profiler like him. I don't deal well with people – real people. That's why I work in the cyber-crime unit. Code, surveillance, background checks – they all keep people at a distance. Stiles wants to know everything about people's brains and behavior – I'm only interested in their stats and what they do online. I guess it's not that different – it's just how we choose to relate. I …" 

She stopped, bit her lip, and looked up. "What you all went through, your pack? It's a story to me, like a TV show or movie. But you lived it, and it forged a bond that anyone can see. It's like an invisible line, like a fishing line, connects you. I knew about you. I knew your background, your history, what you looked like, but I was not prepared for the reality of you. Stiles stands close, too close to people - I stand far, far away. So, I thought that I could see you online and get a sense of you and be okay with it but then you were here, and your presence is … it's overwhelming. The connection you two have? It scares me. It scares me that I can't understand it, and I hate that I'm jealous of it. So I lashed out and it was wrong, and John is right, it was beneath me. You deserve respect and I didn't show you any. Please forgive me."

She had pushed all this out with barely a breath, and Derek sat there for a long moment, not knowing what to say; he tried to imagine how she felt.

_He said he felt a vibe._

Could _everyone_ see it?

She looked teary, and Derek impulsively reached for her hand, utilizing his police training and what he'd learned – been forced to learn – about being an actual, compassionate human being. "It's okay," he started, feeling his way. "I'm sorry we had to meet like this. I can fully understand how scary this is for you, or I think I can. I don't experience fear in the same way that many do, but this scared the hell out of me, too. I forget how fragile humans are, even the insanely tough ones."

Her hand had been cold, was slowly warming in his, and he could hear her heartbeat. "I didn't think Stiles and I still had a connection. In fact, I doubted we ever had one, until we were in the mine, and I couldn't see him anymore, didn't know which heartbeat was his - if either was his. Then it hit me again, full force. I guess you can't experience all the things we did without forging a bond of some kind. But it's not like what you two have, not even close. You two connect out of choice, with love. What happened in Beacon Hills was a highly unlikely series of events that got progressively darker and more dangerous until it was finally over, and a lot of bad things happened. Because of what Peter did, I encountered Scott, then Stiles. Without them, I don't know what would have happened."

It was true – he didn't. If Peter hadn't killed Laura, hadn't bitten Scott, if they hadn't trespassed on the Hale land, if Stiles hadn't been so relentless about teaching Scott how to BE a wolf, despite knowing nothing except what he could print off the internet, if Scott hadn't forged a pack, if Derek hadn't felt challenged, if the Nemeton had not roared back to life, if, if …

He took a breath. "I'm here to help Stiles if I can, and truly, that's all. I didn't come to change or screw up your life together. Please don't think that."

Her eyes were focused steadily on him. "He said your name when he woke up," she said softly. "Not mine, not his father's … yours. Sometimes he says your name in his sleep. Sometimes he doodles it in the margins of his notes – he has no idea he's even doing it. Something is unresolved here, Derek. And that scares me too, because I can't compete with it."

"You don't have to." Instant. "There is no competition. You are the woman he loves, his chosen partner. I'm just a guy he used to know."

"You're also the guy he used to love," she whispered, and then John was back with coffee for the two of them, and Derek pulled back, his hand hot and tingling now.

"Derek, I didn't know you were here - I can go grab another coffee," offered John, whose sharp eyes missed nothing, ever.

"No, that's okay. I'm going to stop in and check on Mulder in there, and then I think I should head down to Bartley, check in with the team there. I'll just be a few minutes, then he's all yours."

The word hung heavily in the air, and Derek left then, before any more words could join it and crush him with their weight.

*~*

Stiles was awake and crotchety when Derek poked his head in. "Ah, Sweetwolf – do me a favor? Get me my laptop and sneak me out the back door."

"That's one of the weirder propositions I've ever gotten," replied Derek, moving over to his bedside, and looking down. "Usually if you're sneaking someone out the back door, you won't need the laptop till later when you review the nudes."

Stiles blinked, then laughed till he groaned, which didn't take long. "Fucking stitches itch," he groused. "And nice, I won't ask how you know that Lieutenant. But I need my MacBook, goddammit, and I need nicotine and these patches are shit. Hospital-grade, my ass. One smoke. One. Be a pal."

"Pals don't let pals tar their lungs and subtract seven minutes of their existence per cigarette, either." Derek pulled up the rolling stool, better for the quick getaway. "And before you tell me everyone's gonna die someday, that's true, but today is not your day and I'm not aiding and abetting your vice. The laptop, I can work on."

Stiles huffed and flopped back on the pillow. "Death would at least be over with soon. This is taking forever."

"Stiles, you were nearly sliced in two like a sandwich," snapped Derek. "Literally almost bisected. Give yourself a few days, will you?"

"A grilled Stiles sandwich," mused Stiles, and Derek rubbed his face. "I got a few emails from Parsons and I think I should head back down there today, stay overnight at least. And Jenny's funeral is tomorrow as well. I think I should pay our respects, seeing as how I - we - got her killed and all."

Stiles' head snapped up. "Okay, Sweet-Sour-Candy-Coated Wolf. A, you're not going without me, and B, we _both_ got Jenny killed and we **both** need to ask her forgiveness. I'm coming with."

"No, you are not. You're still hooked up to an IV, for Christ sakes!" 

That was the wrong thing to say, Derek realized, when Stiles glared daggers at him and then promptly disconnected the IV line, causing the machine to start beeping, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing up – briefly. Very briefly.

Derek was up, catching him, holding on fast. "Yeah, you're in perfect shape for a funeral. You and Jenny can have matching caskets. Get back into bed."

"I refuse," said Stiles, and Derek almost laughed. "You refuse, huh?"

"I do. I have rights, and it's my right to say I will be fine and get the fuck out of here and back to work, but first, I need to say good bye to a sweet woman whose only crime was talking to us, and then I need to find Miller and re-enact his own crime scene, this time featuring him in a variety of poses, all painfully rendered in internal organs, a full color display."

Stiles took a ragged breath, then another, stood up, still holding onto Derek. "Look, I don't care if I'm on a fucking stretcher, I want to be there for Jenny. I liked her."

"I liked her too," said Derek softly. "Okay. You get back into bed, and I get a nurse to hook you back up and THEN, I will find your doctor and see if she'll allow a day trip. You will be in a wheelchair, I will have your back, we will check in at the Sheriff's office, then go to the memorial service tomorrow morning. Then, your ass is coming back here, where you WILL quietly recuperate and not be engulfed in screaming nic fits twice an hour. Understood?"

"Bossywolf," grumbled Stiles. "But all right. That's reasonable, even for you. Can't promise no nic fits though, cause withdrawal? I'm in it."

"I've lived through worse things than you craving a cigarette," said Derek and Stiles eyed him pityingly.

"No, no you haven't."

After much consultation with Stiles' practitioner, the head nurse, his boss, his underboss, and of course Marcy and John (who understood but were emphatically Not In Favor of this), it was decided that Stiles could go - if he took his pain meds as prescribed. If he didn't imbibe any alcohol. If he changed the dressing as necessary. If he didn't exert himself, and oh yeah, he had to use a wheelchair so as not to do any more damage to his body.

That requirement nearly sent him over the edge, but his boss told him emphatically that it was not up for discussion and he was damn lucky to go at all, and also, that he had to keep a low profile and be back at the hospital the next day until he was discharged completely.

"Lieutenant Hale, I'm charging you with Special Agent Stilinski's protection," said the BAU boss, McInnis. "The schedule works like this; you drive down, you check in with the Bartley PD and then you rest at the motel. In the morning, you attend the service, then directly after that, you head back. I expect your ass back in this bed at 11 PM tomorrow night, do you understand?"

John was trying not to smile at the lecture, but Stiles caught him and wanted to scowl, but didn't, maintaining a calm façade. "Understood, sir. Thank you."

McInnis looked at him. "Stiles," he said, voice softer now, less boss, more friend. "I have the utmost respect for you and your skills. I know damn well you can take care of yourself. But Bartley is an unfriendly place to start with, and now you have another situation there on top of your previous situation. All I'm asking here is that you respect that and don't try to investigate tomorrow. Honor the dead, pay your respects, plot and plan later. Whoever did this to you, and the others is a fucking maniac, and would be a serious threat were you back at 100%. But you're not, plain and simple. So don't go looking for a fight until you're back on your feet. You can't do anyone any good laying in a bed, nearly sliced through."

"People keep mentioning that," grumbled Stiles, but nodded. "I understand, sir, it's just difficult to be limited."

"I get that. Do as you're told and soon you won't be. Right Lieutenant?"

Derek nodded. "Yes. It will go fine sir, you have my word."

"Good." After a few more words, McInnis left, and Stiles started to try to get out of bed again, slower this time; Derek stood back and let Marcy and John help him, careful to not overstep, and finally left the room, checking through his backpack to see if there was anything he should pick up before they left.

A bit of time later, he heard raised voices, and of course, wolf hearing …

"Stiles, honey, why shouldn't I come? You won't be there long, I want to be with you when you grieve, and I can take care of the dressings for you!"

"Son, I think we should go too. Yes, Derek can protect you, but if that guy is still out there …"

"You both need to back off!" Stiles' voice was tired, and tinged with a mixture of emotions. "This is my job, and you two don't need to be part of this. Marce, your job is here, and Dad, I'm closing in on 30 and I am not a child anymore!"

Derek stayed where he was, in the waiting room; the voices would be muffled to anyone else, but to him they were clear as a bell.

"Stiles, you're my boyfriend, and this _is_ my job, to stay with you when you're hurt and when you need someone to be with you and care for you and …"

"That's why Derek is going," said Stiles shortly. "He's able to sense and take care of things. If you two go, I'll be off my game, I'll be worried about you both. You two aren't understanding who and what this guy is. He already knows shit about me from the web. He knows who you are, Dad, and probably Marcy too, or can find out easily enough. I'm not putting you two in danger for any reason!"

"Stiles, I'm a trained law officer and have been for nearly 30 years," said John. "I have dealt with his kind, with every kind. I have light bullets in my gun and I know how to use them."

"But you'd be a target!" Stiles shouted. "How can I live with that? What can I do, in this state, if someone tries to hurt either one of you? This is my JOB. You two are family, and you don't mix in! Do you not get that?"

There was a silence then, and then Derek heard the tell-tale sniff and actually was torn between feeling bad for Marcy, and feeling contemptuous, cause tears were manipulative. He knew they weren't always meant to be, but in these situations, they tended to cloud reality. Stiles made good points, and even if his father didn't like them, he, as a lawman, had to realize that his son was right.  
Another moment passed, and Derek debated walking in, then thought better of it.

"I just want to be with you, I nearly lost you," sobbed Marcy, and Derek rubbed his face and left to go get another tasteless container of coffee because eavesdropping on this would not only be wrong, but would piss him off and that was never helpful.

Stiles felt helpless. "I understand that, babe, I do. But I can't have you walking around Bartley with a bullseye on your back, okay? This guy, he looks like anyone else, we haven't gone into detail about him or our encounter with the Bartley PD yet, and he could grab you before you could react, or before I could."

"Who has a nearly 100% score in hand to hand combat? Who is a certified sharpshooter?" Her voice was shaky. "Don't make me out to be a problematic little girl!"

"Miller's a goddamned supernatural creature, Marcy! Seeing claws and fangs in your kitchen is one thing, but they're not cute at fucking all when they're digging into your flesh! Trust me, I have some experience here!"

She cried harder, and John put his arm around her and had her sit down. "Okay, both of you, voices, alright? This is still a hospital, so calm down. Marcy, you sit, breathe. Stiles, lay there and breathe."

He cracked his knuckles absently. "As much as I want to go with you, you have a valid point, son. He was able to find out about you from the web, it's very possible he's done a search and knows your family and friends, especially now that you, he and Derek are known adversaries." John met his son's eyes. "While the chances of me and Marcy being safe are pretty good, I understand that you're operating on that 5 or 10% margin where we're not."

"Yes," said Stiles simply, unknotting his fingers. "Yes. I do operate in that zone, because I have to. It's not that you two aren't more than capable of protecting others and yourselves - it's that this guy operates outside the standard profile. He's a whole new animal, so to speak. I can't predict his moves - yet. And until I can, I cannot risk you two. And even when I do have a feeling for him, I still wouldn't. As everyone keeps telling me, he nearly killed me. And that was on us, Derek and I. We weren't careful enough, we - I - forgot that he is still half-animal and will react as one when cornered. We didn't take into account his absolute disregard for life, any life, or the fact that he knew the terrain inside and out. We were fucking stupid and I deserved this."

Derek had come back and heard Stiles' words, and had to admit, the other man was right.  
Completely correct; they had been stupid and unthinking and one of them had barely made it out alive. That was on both of them, and it was a miracle they weren't both dead.

But this fucker wasn't going to win. Oh no. 

Marcy started to protest that Stiles was too hard on himself, that this was an unusual situation, that he wasn't taking his injury seriously enough, while John and Derek stood there awkwardly, feeling like they should leave, but yet, not moving. John looked over at Derek, noting his look of bemusement, and sighed, leaning against the wall. "You okay with handling him on the trip?"

"Yeah, I'm fine with it. I'll drive, we'll have the chair in the back, the rooms have been renewed and we're all right with the medical aspect; I know first aid, I can change dressings, the hospital isn't far if we did need it. I didn't call the PD, but I did text Parsons back and said we'd be back in town tonight. Professional courtesy, though I'd rather we just slipped in without notice."

"Fuck courtesy," grumbled Stiles, then sighed, took a breath, knowing he couldn't win this argument with his girlfriend, and the longer they bickered, the harder it would be to avoid saying things that would be hard to take back later. "Okay, I need to get up and move and get cleaned up, cause I've been sitting on my ass and overthinking too long."

"So you want to walk around and overthink instead?" Derek tilted his head, and Stiles scowled at him. "I want to be clean, upright, have caffeine and a cigarette. Those things will make me very happy."

John rolled his eyes. "You've been on the patch for days, son. Maybe think about making it more of a permanent thing?"

"Not today, Dad. Okay? I know you love me, I know you worry about my health, but it's not like Sourwolf will let me smoke in the car …"

"It's a rental, Constantine," interjected Derek. "And I'm not paying to have it fumigated."

" .. so I will have to cut down out of necessity," finished Stiles, ignoring Derek, though he kind of appreciated the film reference. He really needed to give Derek more credit. Later. "But I do know I should quit. I get it. Just not now."

John put up his hands. "Fair enough. I would not be doing my fatherly duty if I didn't make an objection. So Derek and I will get out of here and Marcy, do you want to go grab an overnight bag for him or would you rather I do it?"

Marcy was still wiping up her face. "Will you? I'll help him get cleaned up."

John nodded, and Stiles, who felt like an asshole, waited till the door closed behind the two men before reaching for her and gathering her in, nuzzling her hair and talking low to her until she calmed and held onto him, too.

*~*

A little over an hour later, they were on the road; Stiles was clean, dressed, bandaged, and had a pack of medical supplies in his backpack, and, thanks to Derek and a local coffee chain, his favorite hot brew. He had not yet been allowed to smoke, but he was sure if he looked pathetic enough, Derek would eventually pull over and give a guy a break.

They were on I-81, and had been mostly silent for the first half hour of the six hour trip; they would arrive around 4 pm if Derek drove the speed limit, but Stiles knew he wouldn't. He glanced over at the speedometer needle, holding steady at 80, 10 miles over, and he had to smile a little. Derek caught the glance, looked down, but didn't adjust his speed. 

Derek was also drinking coffee, his fourth of the morning and could feel the caffeine coursing through his veins, which was probably why he wasn't giving a single fuck about the speed. And frankly, he just wanted to get to Bartley and sniff things out, so to speak. Jenny's obit had hit him hard, Marcy's speech had hit harder, and the little tidbit about Stiles saying _his_ name when he came out of anesthesia had been about all he could take today. And today had barely started.

He glanced over at Stiles, who was staring out the window, deep in his own thoughts and they were quiet for another 20 minutes, till Derek pulled over to a rest stop and parked. "Go ahead," he said, rolling down their windows. "Just blow the smoke out the window as much as possible, okay?"

Stiles started, then gave him a wan smile. "See, you are a pal after all," he replied and pulled out his box of Reds and lit up, while Derek rubbed his face. "Well, we all have to go sometime, I guess, so better let you choose your poison."

"That's surprisingly empathetic of you," said Stiles, taking a long drag, and Derek shrugged. "Not really. I just figure you do you, and I have no right to give you shit."

"Well, you're a friend," offered Stiles. "Friends do that."

Derek wondered when he'd been upgraded to friend, if he'd ever really been one, or if he was just a reminder of a time Stiles would rather forget. He didn't feel like discussing it right now, honestly - Marcy's bombshell had had its intended effect and he was still processing.

Stiles smoked for a minute or two in silence, obediently dangling his hand out the window, then glanced over at Derek, who was just looking straight ahead, prompting him to ask - hesitantly, for him - if Derek was okay.

Derek nodded. "I'm fine. I should be asking you that, but you'd lie, even if you were on your deathbed. But you have coffee, nicotine and good painkillers, so I imagine you're doing fine. Superfine, as a matter of fact."

"You'd think so, but essentially I'm sewn together like Frankenstiles, am wracked with guilt over Jenny, and pissed as fuck that my aim was apparently off and that fucker isn't dead as he should be."

"Technically, we don't know that he isn't," Derek pointed out. "I didn't hear a second heartbeat in the mine, but however, with a fourth murder, we have to assume it's him and not a copycat.

Stiles groaned. "The one word no BAU agent ever fucking wants to hear is "copycat." It literally haunts my dreams."

"For what it's worth, I don't think it is," offered Derek, taking a sip of his own, now-cold coffee. "I think he was on a self-created, if misguided mission before, but now he's pissed off and scared too. He doesn't know if you're okay or not - the FBI kept that on the down low - and so right now, he has no idea if we'll be back or not. Guaranteed he'll be lurking at the funeral - sick fucks love to show up at the services of people they've killed."

Stiles nodded, took a last drag, then paused before opening the door and leaning down to butt out the cigarette on the metal runner. Straightening up made him wince, and take a ragged breath, while Derek watched him, concerned. "No ashtray," he said. "Sorry."

"It's okay - do they even make cars with them anymore? I'll deal." Stiles shifted, and Derek started the vehicle again, pulling back onto the road.

They were quiet for several miles; Derek understood, didn't know what they'd talk about other than the case, and that had been discussed in detail when Stiles was bed-bound and unable to do anything other than think, ponder and consider. He had to check his speed more than once; the 4Runner liked to, well, run, and he crept up to 90 mph more than once - Stiles didn't seem to notice, or care. 

When they were at the 184 mile marker, Stiles looked over at him. "Did I actually thank you for saving my life?"

Derek kept his eyes on the road. "You didn't have to, I knew," he replied. "And you know I would never, ever leave you somewhere to die. Or, rather, you should know that," he added, thinking back to not one, but several times he could have done just that. Sure, they were teenagers - or close enough - back then, but even in his surliest, angriest, most hateful moments, Derek would never leave anyone behind. And Stiles was far more than just anyone. "I'm just glad there was quick medical attention, cause that asshole got you good."

"Yeah," said Stiles, rubbing his neck. "Guess someone was watching over me. Guardian angel, devil, wolf, pick one."

Another silence, and when Derek opened his mouth next, he had no idea what would come out until it was too late. "Marcy says you said my name when you were waking up from anesthesia."

"I'm sure I did," said Stiles, watching the scenery slide by. "I'm sure my subconscious thought I was still in the mine and needed to know where you were."

For some reason, that hurt. "Marcy thought it might be for another reason."

"Did she?" Stiles reached for his drink, took a swig. "I'm not sure what you want me to say, Derek."

"I don't want you to say anything," lied Derek. "I just thought it was interesting."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Yes, why. It's an interrogative word, used to inquire about a subject," began Stiles, but Derek shot him a glare, a Sourwolf-worthy glare, and Stiles almost smiled, before shrugging. "She knows that we … that we had a few moments, once upon a time. And she really didn't have time to prepare for meeting you. Like when we met up with Lydia, we knew a month in advance. She wasn't ready to see you at the hospital cause she didn't know you were in Bartley with me."

That was news to Derek. "You didn't tell her?"

"No. It wasn't relevant."

Not relevant. Stiles seeing him after all these years wasn't relevant?

"Jesus, you're cold," he muttered, and had to lift his foot off the gas again, while Stiles banged his head against the headrest. "What the fuck do you want, really? You need to be a little more specific about the kinds of replies you're looking for."

Derek took a breath, then another one. _Do not get drawn in, Hale_.

"I'm not looking for any particular replies," he said. "I guess I'm surprised that you didn't mention it to her, but it's your relationship dynamic, not mine. You didn't feel she needed to know, so you didn't tell her. Simple. It's not for me to comment upon."

"Except that you just did." Stiles flexed his fingers. "Look. She was already worried about me being down in West Virginia. I'd already been gone for weeks, and it was the first time we'd been apart that long. So there's that. I was immersed in my work and the nightly phone calls were unsatisfying to her, cause I was being me, ergo, super-focused, or obsessed, whatever you wanna call it. So she's already feeling alone, our communication is lacking, and then I'm supposed to tell her that someone I cared deeply about once has suddenly shown up, looking fucking fine as hell, and oh, he's here to work side-by-side with me, hundreds of miles from her and home, on a task that is not entirely unfamiliar to either of us. That's gonna make her feel amazing, right?"

Stiles rubbed his face. "So no, I didn't tell her. I had no idea I'd wind up in Walter Reed, with a life debt to the same person she's already apprehensive about reappearing in my life. What a cold bastard I am, right?"

He glanced over at Derek, seeing him mimicking the same gesture, which almost made him smile a bit, then turned back to the window.

"I didn't do this - come to Bartley - to cause problems," said Derek quietly. "I'm sure you know that. When John suggested it, I was hesitant, because I had no idea what you'd think or do. I felt like I used to know you, used to be able to predict your reaction, but I didn't know this new Stiles, didn't know how he'd respond. I'm sorry to have upset Marcy with my presence, but this time, I really did walk in blind."

"Yeah, you did," agreed Stiles unexpectedly. "I don't blame her reactions on you, Derek. I'm trying to explain them, cause that's what I do for a living, but I don't blame you. I think either of us could put ourselves in her place and feel the same - me, because despite my crusty attitude, I still have the whole empathetic human thing going on, and you, because, well, you've changed. Ten years ago, I wouldn't have believed you could feel sorry about anything, but now, yeah, I can see it."

The Pathfinder was abruptly jerked into action as Derek changed lanes a little harder and faster than was necessary, making the vehicle rock, and jostling Stiles painfully, making him wince. "Jesus, was that necessary?"

"It was, yeah," said Derek, voice tight. "Cause I'm a literal monster, you know, who cares about no one, nothing, and just lives to fuck you up, and you alone. Time to quit pretending I've grown up or that ten fucking _years_ have passed since the Hunter Wars, and in that time I've worked on myself like you don't even know, and will never know. It's so much easier for you to just think of me as a giant prick, so you just keep thinking that. Whatever keeps you in your little "Derek is a dick" comfort zone."

He stepped on the gas; yeah, he liked to drive fast, yeah, he floored it regularly in his Camaro, but the SUV wasn't made for that, yet he pushed it. Stiles, mouth partially open, watched the speedometer creep up until they were at 95 on the interstate, Derek weaving in amongst other vehicles like they were mere bumps in the road. Stiles found himself raising his arm and gripping the "Oh Jesus" handle, so named by generations of parents who had taught their children to drive.

"Derek," he said softly, then again, "Derek, Christ, slow the fuck down before you can't even good-cop yourself out of the criminal speeding ticket you're about to get!"

"Who's gonna ticket a Federal Agent and a Lieutenant, huh? You flash your shiny blue and gold badge and you could steal the cop's own cruiser and leave him on the side of the road. Or her, let me not be sexist, on top of all my other crimes."

He swerved around an Escalade and flipped them off when they honked at him, not giving a single damn while Stiles counted to ten - twice - before he managed, "Derek, please. I don't know what the fuck to do here any more than you do! I wasn't ready for this either, I feel like I'm in over my head and either I'm losing my game or I never had it to begin with. You don't know what you do to me, Derek. You've never known. Not really. Give me a break, okay? This is hard for me too."

Derek forced his foot to lift up, the speed dropping to 85, then 80, and Stiles sucked in a breath, aware that sweat was beading on his forehead. "Can you not resort to violence to process your feelings for once?"

"Apparently not," muttered Derek, lifting one hand, then the other off the steering wheel and flexing. "Apparently I haven't evolved as much as I'd hoped. Back to the shrink."

"You go to therapy?" asked Stiles, surprised, and Derek snorted. "No. It's just a saying."

"Maybe you should."

"No maybes about it, but I haven't found one certified in Sourwolf personality theory," replied Derek, aggressively changing lanes to be ready for the exit coming up. "Until then, I'll just have to do the work myself."

Stiles allowed himself a smile. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that?"

"You've told me so frequently, so yeah I'm aware. I picked up the finer points from you though."

"Fair enough," replied Stiles, and yeah, now the smile was bigger; Derek looked over at him and had to snort, and after that, things were okay. They stopped for a break now and then, got some Sonic burgers, then Taco Bell, cause they were both gluttons for punishment. Derek only hoped they'd make it to the motel before the Taco Bell Grande family pack took its revenge.

They made it to Bartley ahead of schedule, thanks to Derek's careless disregard for posted speed limits, and checked back into the motel, receiving a warm greeting from the owner; Stiles suspected that it was the fact that the FBI paid its bills promptly more than any genuine fondness for either of them, but he was okay with that.

Their rooms were clean; Rory had taken their equipment back to Quantico with him but had beaten them back here and set up his room again, so they checked in with him as well. Rory was clearly worried about Stiles, which was kind of touching, but then again, they'd worked three cases together before this and were a team in the way that once the Hale/McCall pack had been. Derek found himself being glad that Stiles had someone who had his back with him at all times, then remembered that Stiles had his own back, and that's why he was the BAU's golden child.

Rory showed them the photos from the latest crime scene, and Stiles scowled, staring at them. "There's his signature entrail art," he said with heavy sarcasm. "Some people make the Sistine Chapel out of popsicle sticks, this asshole arranges internal organs in a tableau of blood."

"Creativity takes many forms," said Rory gravely, making Derek snort, and Rory smiled for him; when he smiled, he became early twenties instead of ten. "But yeah, this time the arrangement is clearer, more deliberate. He's found his sig line."

"His line, sig or otherwise is gonna be snapped when I'm done with him," muttered Stiles and Rory tilted his head. "Boss, I know this is super personal for you, but we gotta take him alive unless he tries to use deadly force on us."

"I think this qualifies," Stiles pulled up his shirt and Rory's eyes widened. "Jesus," he breathed. "I didn't see the bandage in Walter Reed. All the way down?"

"Yep. I'm hoping he uses his left claw next time," said Stiles, pulling down his shirt. "You know, a counter slash so X marks the spot."

"There's not gonna be a next time," said Derek more calmly than he felt; the sight of the wound made him angry far down, a pull in his gut. "Because he will definitely not come quietly."

Stiles almost said, "I don't come quietly either," but then remembered he was in an official capacity, though Rory was looking at him expectantly, then shook his head. 

"Probably not, but I'd be remiss if I didn't mention it," he said mildly. "Personally I hope you rip his fucking head off and mount it on the grill of your Fed ride as a warning."

"Jesus, dark much?" Stiles grinned. "I knew you were my favorite coworker for a reason."

Rory laughed, and after a brief break, they went over to the Sheriff's office, where they were regarded warily as they made their way to Parson's office. They passed Hopper, whose face darkened as he spied them, and he didn't greet them, just turned his back as they walked by.

"Suppose this is the level of welcome we should expect, huh?" said Rory, as they walked, and Stiles nodded - he'd experienced this before. No one liked to be undermined, and the fact that someone had died, literally because of them, was definitely going to be an issue, as it should be. 

Parsons greeted them, if not exactly warmly, but cordially, and the first thing Stiles said was "I know how angry and upset you all must be with Lieutenant Hale and I, and you're right to be. We should have insisted Mrs. Prentiss come with us and be placed under police protection. That was our error and we live with it."

Parsons opened his mouth, then closed it and sighed. "You couldn't make Jenny do a damn thing, trust me. Many have tried; her own family tried to put her in assisted living and she shot out their tires in the front yard, then told them to, well, fuck off."

Derek couldn't help it; he grinned, and Parsons had to laugh too. "I don't blame you, but won't lie - some do, and some are gonna let you know. I appreciate you coming for her service, though - it's a gentlemanly thing to do."

"We wouldn't have stayed away unless ordered to," said Derek. "She was amazing, and the hour and change we spent with her changed the entire focus of the investigation. Thanks to her, we have our suspect; now we need to arrest him."

"Him. So you do know who it is, no supposition?" Parsons leaned in and glanced over at Derek. "I need a full briefing, Agent, Lieutenant. I cannot afford to be left in the dark about this. This is still my town." 

"We understand that," said Stiles, and Rory closed the door - and window - before coming back and pulling up a chair, ready to assist with visual aids.

Stiles summarized; that was his strength, oddly enough given his tendency to ramble, and although he looked to Derek once or twice for corroboration, he ran the show, and when he was done, the Sheriff sat back. "Miller? Ellis Miller, the busboy."

"Ellis Miller, the murdering psychopath is more like it," said Stiles.

"Jesus, I would not … well, I wouldn't suspect anyone I've ever met could do this," admitted Parsons. "You're sure?" he asked again.

"I'm sure. I was kind of there when he did this." Stiles stood with some stiffness, and winced a little, but tugged up his shirt for Show and Tell. "When I'm almost killed, my memory kicks into high gear."

Parson's eyes widened, and he swallowed hard. "Good God, that looks like it nearly went through you."

"Oh, not quite, but he added a couple of slashes across the back to make sure I felt it in the morning," said Stiles. "You know, just to make it stick." He dropped his shirt just before it became uncomfortable, and Parsons swallowed.

"What kind of a knife did he have, some kind of bowie knife?"

"No knife. Claws," said Derek quietly; they'd discussed whether it should be brought up or not, and hadn't reached a firm decision, but Derek was hoping Parsons would be open minded enough to accept the element of the supernatural in this situation.

"Claws," echoed Parsons, looking blank. "Like actual animal claws?"

"Like these," said Derek, and stretched out his hand, letting the claws pop out, lengthen into razor-sharp talons. "These can cut through iron," he added. "So flesh isn't really an issue. The cuts that were initially thought to be animal claws during the initial investigation were correct. They are. Just not the kind you think."

Parsons had paled; Derek had moved away from him, but there was still no doubt that in a split second, those claws could cleave him in half too. "What the fuck is this, the X-Files?"

Stiles looked over at Derek, who dropped his hand and let the claws retract. "It didn't start out that way," he said. "We found out when Derek, who is a born werewolf, picked up Ellis' scent outside of Jenny's home. She had given us enough information to make the educated guess as to the murderer's identity, but at the time we didn't have all the details as to the stats. But he knew of us, tracked us to her home, and when we were gone, he silenced her. If you study her autopsy, you'll see the cuts are very similar; Miller doesn't have much of a variation in his slashing and slicing abilities yet."

"Yet." Parsons was torn between incredulity and nausea, and leaned forward in his chair to press his fingers into his temples.

"Yet." Stiles watched his face for any sign that Parsons had had even a single clue, if he was covering for a local, if he had KNOWN. But he hadn't. Stiles was sure. He glanced over at Derek, who could smell, if not a lie, conflicting emotions, but Derek's expression betrayed no confusion. Either Parsons was an actor extraordinaire and should be in Hollywood, not Bartley or he was telling the truth.

Stiles had long ago learned to not judge the proverbial book by its cover - a lesson taught to him by the wolf beside him - but he was sure Parsons was completely in the dark.

"Werewolves," said Parsons again, his tone wondering. "My grandpappy told me stories about them - called them shapeshifters - but said that they were gone now, like they'd never existed."

"They don't anymore," said Derek. "Because the mine owners from the explosion in ‘41 made sure they all died in the collapse." His tone was cold, angry. "The mine was barred with a substance that barred supernatural creatures from crossing it, and they were all killed by the explosion; burned alive or crushed beyond their regenerative powers."

Parsons looked up. "Murdered?"

"Mass murdered," said Stiles, taking over. "And we suspect that Ellis, a descendant of the main family of wolves, is exacting a rather delayed revenge."

Parsons rubbed his face. "Holy shit, I need a drink," he said, and pulled out a bottle of whiskey from a bottom desk drawer, while Rory, never one to turn down sippin' whiskey, grabbed four paper cups from the coffee station. Parsons poured, not asking who wanted some, and frankly, none of them would have said no.

They sipped, and Stiles felt it burn down in his stomach. Drinking on top of Dilaudid - always a good idea. The alcohol didn't touch Derek, but it was a good blend, and he could appreciate the taste. 

After a few minutes, Parsons straightened up. "So, let me recap." He seemed to have shrugged off the sort of hangdog, son-of-a-formidable-father air he'd worn since they'd met. "We have four dead men, and one dead woman, all innocent folks. We have an about mortally wounded FBI agent and his partner, a … werewolf." He paused. "Sorry Lieutenant. It's not exactly a word that rolls off my tongue."

Derek shook his head. "We don't publicize our existence, so I wouldn't expect you to be okay with it. Realizing Ellis was a wolf turned the whole case around, but it did give us motive. The men who were killed are all distantly related to the mine owners. We're theorizing that he's starting small, refining his methods, before going for bigger prey."

"Or, he goes into a frenzy and can't help himself," offered Rory, and Derek shook his head. "He doesn't go to the scene in frenzy; there are too many planned aspects of the crime. That said, maybe in the heat of the moment, he does experience that - not enough information to tell yet. If I could get to a crime scene in time, I could smell it, but right now, it's supposition."

"What is frenzy?" asked Parsons, and Stiles, swallowing the last of the whiskey, answered, "Bloodlust, basically. Losing control in the midst of a kill."

Parsons poured himself another shot of whiskey at that, and Stiles couldn't blame him, and did not demur when Parsons poured him one as well; Rory was up for it but Derek shook his head, declining.  
"And Jenny?" Parsons asked, and Stiles took a breath. "Collateral damage. I suspect he heard that Deets had pointed us towards Jenny for information, and tracked us there, then killed her so that she couldn't help us further. Or maybe just because he's a psychotic asshole."

"But you say that he's got a motive, right? He's seeking revenge for his relatives that were killed in the explosion."

"That's what we believe, but cannot prove until we talk to him, but I doubt that will happen," said Stiles. "He wasn't content with just escaping in the mine, he struck back. I did have my weapon trained on him, but had he not attacked me, I wouldn't have shot."

"He didn't show up in any local hospitals," said Parsons. "I'd have known."

"So much for HIPAA," muttered Rory, and Parsons shot him a look. "It's a small town, Agent. You've been here for weeks, you must have figured that out."

"Fair enough," replied Rory. "Sorry, Sheriff; having my friend and supervising agent nearly die in an abandoned mine has me a little on edge."

Derek almost grinned, cause Rory was stepping the fuck up here. Appearances truly were deceiving, cause this kid had an almost Stilesian streak. "What this all comes down to, Sheriff, is that we have a revenge-oriented individual who has a specific mission in mind. He also has excessive strength, far beyond your average human. He has claws and fangs that are lethal. He may not have sufficient control to keep himself from descending into frenzy, so his ability to handle himself in the moment of the kill is impaired. He cannot be killed in the same manner as you would a normal person, and taking him alive will be difficult, if not impossible. There have been hunters who are trained in this sort of thing, who have been around for years."

The words tasted sour in his mouth, or perhaps it was the aftertaste of the whiskey. "The Agent possesses sufficient knowledge and skills to immobilize Miller, as do I."

Parsons took a deep breath. "So our next steps are to find him, and also to isolate potential victims. I know most of the families, and finding out who's still around shouldn't be hard."

Stiles nodded. "I would normally say don't be obvious about it, and I still would say so, but the difference here is that Ellis knows we're onto him, and knows who we are, and we know who he is. The board is set up already. Now it's going to be getting to him before he gets to others. And there's the possibility that he might kill again, but not a related victim, simply to throw us off. But I don't think so. I think he's going to move faster now; he has a method, a signature, and on the off chance -in his mind - that we get to him before he gets to us, he'll want to accomplish as much of his goal as possible."

Parsons nodded. "You think he'll come for you?"

"I think he'll try," said Stiles honestly. "Even knowing that Derek here is a wolf, I think he'll still try, cause again, his control is lacking - I don't imagine he has any sort of guidance. Were he in complete control, though I'd be even more concerned."

"Was coming back here wise?" asked Parsons. "You're injured pretty bad, Agent. It's only been a couple of weeks, almost, and you still move pretty stiffly."

"No, it was not," said Derek, and Stiles glared at him. "But both Stiles and I, and Rory, felt that paying our respects to Jenny was important. We've made arrangements to care for Stiles."

Stiles wanted to interject that he wasn't a fucking child, thank you very much, but realized he'd sound petulant (because he was) and didn't say anything other than "I appreciate your concern, Sheriff, but I'll be fine. Getting hurt in the line of duty is a risk every law enforcement official takes when they wear this badge."

Parsons nodded again, stashed his bottle, collected the cups and tossed them in the trash. "So I'll get on finding out who's related to whom, and I guess I will see you at the funeral tomorrow. I'll be on alert, as will my officers."

"I'd appreciate it if you kept the finer details to yourself," said Stiles. "Please don't let them know to look for him, cause he'll spook even further, and on the off chance that one of your officers has a connection to Miller, well … blood is thicker, you know? And the wolf factor needs to be a secret, please. Things need to seem as normal as possible, under the circumstances."

"Understood." Parsons stood up, as did Stiles and Rory; Derek had been standing all this time, his energy having been constrained in a vehicle for hours. "Take care of yourself, Agent."

"I will," said Stiles, then leveled a look at Parsons. "Your help has been invaluable, Sheriff," he said. "You have been open, and helpful and haven't treated myself or my colleagues as though we had the plague or were somehow out to get you. I understand the suspicion of outsiders, I understand law enforcement is not welcome in many places, but you've shown no bias, and your crime scene photos are excellent." A sudden smile. "You have your own little portfolio of photos, don't you? Pictures you've taken, playing with light, shadows, composition."

Parsons had been flushing a little, was startled, but returned the smile. "I do, actually. Loved taking pictures since I was a kid, wanted to be a photographer for National Geographic."

"I won't give you the bullshit reply that it's never too late, but you have talent," said Stiles. "I hope you keep on with the photography however you can, and again, your photos have been invaluable. Thank you."

Stiles' smile was still disarming as hell, thought Derek, and watched Parsons react and relax from it. The world was lucky STILES hadn't turned to serial massacre.

They left then, encountering no one else, and Rory got them takeout from a place in the next town, and they all ate in Stiles' room, before retiring, Rory to his gaming, and Stiles and Derek to the outside steps, Stiles having a much-needed cigarette; he had had shockingly little nicotine tonight.  
Derek had taken the time to sniff the place out before his nose was clogged with chemical tobacco smoke, but there were no others around. No wolves. No Miller. He let out a breath, and Stiles blinked and immediately switched hands. "Sorry about the smoke."

"It's fine," said Derek absently. "Still a little funny to see you smoking though, can't lie."

"Yeah, I can imagine. I'm actually surprised I didn't start earlier, given the stress from high school alone, but I started in college just cause pre-law at Georgetown was intense, and I was still interning at the Bureau. I couldn't drown my stress in curly fries forever, so I picked up smoking with a girl from my study group. And no, it wasn't my smartest move ever, before you say anything, but it is what it is. And since I don't do anything halfway, the habit got bigger than me pretty quickly." Stiles took a drag, then exhaled smoke. "And Marcy hates it, Dad hates it, it's socially unacceptable, all that shit. And yet, I don't quit, so riddle me that."

"Cause people want you to," said Derek. "And you felt like a doormat when you were younger, like shit was constantly out of your control, like you were always the "good kid." This is one thing you can control and it gives you satisfaction to say "I'm doing this whether you like it or not, so shut the fuck up."

Stiles blinked, looked at him. "Are you sure you shouldn't have an office in Quantico?"

"Nope, couldn't stand all the concrete and I don't wear suits. I don't know _people_ , Stiles. I do know you."

Stiles snorted. "That's fair," he said, and stubbed out his smoke, reaching for his beer, cause hell, he already had Southern Comfort zipping through his veins, so why not add some Michelob? Go big or go home, right?

Derek was staring up at the stars. "I imagine Marcy would just like you to not have to live on mints in order to kiss her."

"Hey, I brush my teeth before we make out, and if she catches me on my way back in from a smoke break, she takes her chances," said Stiles defensively. "But yes, okay, it's a factor. Plus she runs 5 miles a day, does yoga, and has one cheat day a week."

"Whereas you work 16 hours per day, think yoga is just sticking your ass in the air on mats and breathing deep, and every day is a cheat day for you."

Stiles snorted, then laughed. "You do know me, still."

"That I do," said Derek, taking a swig of beer. "I never forgot. Couldn't if I tried."

The whole night was dark as ink, except for the stars and the faint lights scattered on the motel steps; a few were out, but the effect was ethereal. Derek thought back to a night that had been this dark, no stars to be seen, and the smell of blood in the air; his breathing had been ragged, the gash on his leg soaking his jeans. Stiles had bent to bandage the wound with a strip of one of his fucking flannel shirts, and when he'd tied the tourniquet tight, Derek had pulled him up roughly, and kissed him. Hard, lips chapped and cracked against a soft mouth, and Stiles hadn't resisted, even for a moment, but had wrapped his arms around Derek's neck and kissed back.

That kiss had lasted maybe four, five seconds, but it felt like eternity to Derek, and, he suspected, to Stiles too, though the moment had been shattered by gunfire, and they'd run.

That hadn't been the last kiss, though. Not for a while, and though Derek kept telling himself that every time was the last time, it wasn't. Until it was. Until it was all over, and his last sight of Stiles had been with Lydia clinging to him, both bloody and exhausted, and looking at each other like they were the last people on earth.

Derek had survived more heartbreak than any man, woman or wolf should, but very little had hit harder than that sight - he'd turned away and swallowed hard, shoving his feelings back down to that internal pit that never drained, simply churned.

Stiles had tried to talk to him, later, but Derek had just turned his head and walked away, which didn't earn him any maturity points, but whatever. And they'd never spoken of it again. And soon, they hadn't spoken, period, cause Stiles was in the east, Derek in the west, and even with John, he'd simply listened when the other man spoke of his son, and after a while, Stiles was just someone he'd used to know.

And yet, and _yet,_ here they fucking were again. Derek rubbed his face and belatedly realized Stiles was talking to him. "Sorry, what?"

"Do you remember that last night like this? In Beacon Hills?'

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." Derek took another swig of beer.

"Me too."

"Even under anesthesia?" Okay that was a dick thing to say, Hale. Bad wolf.

Stiles set down his beer. "You're still a giant, razor clawed, blue-eyed asshole," he said, and reached to pull Derek in by the back of his neck and jammed their lips together.

And honestly, Derek didn't even notice the taste of smoke, only Stiles; he'd never forgotten the way those lips felt pressed against his.

After the kiss broke, they pulled back, both with wide eyes and Stiles hastily claimed he needed rest, the meds were wearing off, he should hit the hay. Derek just nodded, managed to ask if he needed help, and Stiles demurred, getting to his feet, swaying a bit, having to hold onto the door frame to steady himself. Derek didn't offer a hand because he wasn't sure he could let go if he did.

Stiles' door banged shut, and after a few minutes of stillness, he heard Stiles' voice on the phone, no doubt speaking to Marcy. Reassuring himself that she was his life now, not Derek. Telling himself Derek would never be his life.

Nothing Derek didn't already know.

He stood too, gathered the beer bottles, went into his own room, and closed the door. He also closed the door on his memories, and to his heart. Tried to.

Neither of them slept until pale light split the horizon of Bartley, West Virginia, where a good woman was about to be buried, and a bad wolf was about to multiply his sins.

End Part II

**Author's Note:**

> **melly_diamond:**
> 
> Well. Remember when I said "Part II is almost done, will be up in a couple of weeks," in August?  
> I lied. I meant well, though. I usually do. And there is a Part III coming.
> 
> I know. I know. I promise it will be sooner than later, cause Stiles has a way of taking up space in my brain, and then Peter chimed in with a non-sequitur, and then Derek went to get a beer and it got rowdy. As Dot from Animaniacs once said, "Boys, go fig."
> 
> THANK YOU to all the people who have read, commented, left kudos, etc. You're all wonderful and I hope you enjoy this part too. No old ladies with a fondness for hooch and a bird problem were harmed in the writing of this part. Honestly. RIP Jenny.
> 
> **thilia:**
> 
> Music used in this part:  
> \- 25 by The Pretty Reckless
> 
> Thanks for reading/listening!


End file.
